


Without Fear

by anti_ela



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:06:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti_ela/pseuds/anti_ela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If you fuck this up for me, Foggy Bear, I'm going to send that video to your mother."</p><p>"Marci! I'm wounded; I would never. Look at my freshly-laundered shirt and silken, brushed hair! I am the very picture of a science-thinker and math-doer right now."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Concatenation

"If you fuck this up for me, Foggy Bear, I'm going to send that video to your mother."

"Marci! I'm wounded; I would never. Look at my freshly-laundered shirt and silken, brushed hair! I am the very picture of a science-thinker and math-doer right now."

She glances over him. She's not frowning, but she's doing that Marci face she does when people are supposed to know how they can improve themselves and act on it. Once upon a time, that look would've made him panic. Now, though, he's beyond the initial self-doubt and confusion. She's with him because he's awesome and she enjoys spending time with him, even if she doesn't show it, because Marci wouldn't waste her time. She's too cool for that.

He smiles at her.

"Your collar's stained."

"Can't change, we'll be late. Or does Professor Husband like tardiness now?"

He watches her internal struggle for a few moments before she says, "God! I don't care. Let's go."

They only live a few miles from campus, so Marci has few opportunities to commit vehicular homicide on the way in. Living in a college town filled with liberal arts pedestrians wasn't good for her blood pressure. Sometimes, though, he thought she might actually enjoy the craft beer, art shows, and knitting bombs. It was the people that ruined it.

Even so, she's smiling and has a satisfied swing in her step as they walk into the science building. At the elevator, she takes one of his hands in hers, curling their fingers together, and leans on him. Her lips brush his ear as she whispers, "You're mine, you know."

He shivers pleasurably, and happy thoughts radiate down to his toes. "Yeah."

She straightens, but keeps hold of his hand. Just before the elevator stops, she says, "I'm really happy, Foggy. This is where you're supposed to be."

He nudges her with his hip. "Where we're supposed to be."

She sighs softly. "No, I'm for Mars. But you're good here."

The door is open and she's down the hall before he even realizes she's not holding his hand.

He jogs slightly to catch up to her. "Never been here, remember?"

She snorts. "Half of the classes you teach are in that hallway, Foggy. I'm not worried."

"Maybe I have a specific dread of this wing. Maybe I think it's haunted. You don't know."

"You don't have any phobias or believe in ghosts."

"Maybe I want to believe."

"Are you getting this out of your system? This is the door. Are you done?"

He fidgets, opens his mouth, shuts it. "I can't think of anything."

"You've got," she glances at her watch, "twenty-three minutes. You wanna wait out here, or are you good?"

He mock-gasps. "You said we were late!"

"And you believed it." She opens the door and is instantly Professional Marci, Would You Like To Network Marci, Let's Have Brunch Marci.

The office looks like everyone else's: cramped, dark, and piled high with books that were outdated the moment they were printed. Very little points to the personality of the man who inhabits it, but Foggy supposes not everyone can pull off the plastic dino look.

Dr. Hubbard is a surprise. While Marci introduces them, Foggy takes in the man's silvering feathered hair, laugh lines obscured by coke-bottle glasses, and worn suit that was actually, clichedly fraying at the cuffs. He looks more like a medieval poetry professor who can't get tenure than the darling of the dean.

Foggy's getting the same treatment. He recognizes The Look that happens when Dr. Hubbard sees Marci's hand on Foggy's shoulder. He knows exactly how they look together, what people must think: schlubby guy with a type-A ten? Must be her project.

He feels sorry for the people who never get to know her.

Which is pretty much everyone.

"It's such an honor to meet you, Professor," Foggy says with his Nice Young Man smile. Free bacon has been gained from tight-fisted old ladies with this smile; it's a solid hit.

"From what I hear, it's absurd that introductions haven't happened sooner."

He glances at Marci. Her smile's a little tight, so he decides not to discuss the spectral reasons for his absence. "Well, with a university this large, the line of hands to shake can get pretty long."

"True, and then funding sources always cut the line."

Marci makes some soft noise in her throat that makes them both turn to her. She raises a brow. "I will never understand how you can complain about free wine and free money."

"But you have to talk to them first!" Foggy whines.

"And they're never interesting," Hubbard adds.

A familiar expression passes over her face, but it's gone in a moment. She says, "I regret this choice. Please unmeet each other."

Foggy grins and fights the urge to kiss her. "And ruin all that work you did?"

"We would never disrespect your efforts in such a manner."

She hums, then turns to the professor. "Shall we?"

"Oh! Yes, of course. Please, Mr. Nelson, follow me."

It was a distance of perhaps ten feet, but between the office and the lab was a passcode-locked, steel-reinforced door. Professor Hubbard distractedly waved a wand first over himself, then Marci, and then Foggy. It beeped a few times, and Foggy ended up putting his phone, keys, and watch in a drawer of the professor's desk. Once they all passed inspection, Foggy shuffled through.

"You could've told me," he murmured when the professor was a few feet ahead.

"And miss you blushing over standard security protocols? Foggy."

He looks away, then glances at the professor's back an instant before it disappears beyond a turn in the hallway. Right. Doesn't matter. Keep going. He speeds up, Marci right beside him, and they're only a breath behind when the professor stops at a door and swipes a card.

With his hand on the door handle, Hubbard glances at Foggy and then back at the door. "I asked her not to tell you. She vetted you, but some people have tried, well." He pauses. "I'm glad you didn't. That's all."

"Oh," Foggy says, looking at Marci. She shrugs minutely, and he turns his gaze back to the professor. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Don't apologize. Or at least, don't apologize when I'm the one in the wrong who simultaneously has no intention of apologizing."

Foggy smiles. "That seems fair."

Then they're through the door and he's adjusting to the bright light and—

"Oh."

The android is leaning casually against a steel table while a scientist sits in a chair in front of it, holding its hand while lightly grazing its palm with some kind of tool.

Foggy moves closer.

"Oh. Oh, wow."

The scientist spares a glance for him, but then goes back to her work. The android does not react to him, only murmuring responses to her questions.

"It's beautiful."

The android's finger twitches. "It can hear you," it says, voice neutral.

Foggy flushes and looks to the side, where Marci and the professor are observing him. Observing him! Fuck.

"I'm sorry, I just—you look... You look amazing. That's all."

It doesn't—he doesn't?—respond.

"Um. My name is Foggy Nelson. Although, technically, Franklin Nelson, birth name and all, uh. I'm usually not this awkward; actually, generally, pretty cool, so if you could just, like, give me the time of day, or your name, that would be great." He holds out his hand.

The android rotates its upper torso to face him, but its hand is still relaxed in the researcher's palm. A brief ring of red light swirls in its eyes, and then shuts off as if the power was pulled.

"The time is now 3:24 PM Eastern Standard Time."

He turns back to the scientist.

Foggy pulls his hand back. “That’s, um, that’s an idiom.”

“Yes.”

"If I leave and come back, would you pretend that you'd never met me before so I could be cool and casual and not make an ass of myself?"

"Are machines capable of make-believe, Franklin?"

He opens his mouth to respond, then closes it. "I'm not the expert on what you are capable of. That would... probably be you, actually."

The scientist stands up and pointedly thanks the android for his time. He ducks his head and smiles, then says, "Any time, Dr. Temple. Your research intrigues me."

She doesn't so much as look at Foggy when she sweeps past him.

The android looks down at his hand and flexes his fingers, one after another. Like all of the android's movements, it seems calculated, studied, a little too exact to be organic. Leaning against the table, one palm flat on the cold steel, the other extended before him: where had he seen it?

And yet, even imitating this must be a decision. Reprimand, or stay silent? Respond genuinely to the person who is acting rudely, or deliberately misunderstand them?

The android straightens and steps closer to Foggy. "Dr. Temple is interested in the possibility of adapting my technology to prosthetics. Dr. Hubbard wishes to understand the process of learning, and he is intrigued by the possibility of forming sapience outside of the human paradigm. Many of the others involved have simply wanted to take theory to praxis. What do you hope to gain, Franklin?"

He shrugs. "Honestly, nothing. I don't know what you can even offer. That's what's so exciting."

The android is still for a moment, and then says softly, "You're telling the truth." He moves closer, and once more his eyes glow red. This close, Foggy can hear the soft hum they produce. The android studies Foggy, taking in his hair, his clothes. He has a strange impression that even more is being evaluated: what kind of sensors does the android have? Which does he value?

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Yes."

"Why do you turn your sight off? Is it the sound?"

The android blinks. "I... have many reasons. The sound is a factor. Constant sight is unnecessary as I am rarely outside of these walls. Using processing power to identify and interpret what I see is an excessive drain when much of what I need to know can be gained from other senses." The android pauses and looks at the professor. "Red eyes are often indications of The Other in human mythology and popular culture. I believe it was a deliberate choice to remind those I interact with that I am not human. Reminders are not necessary. They know."

"Ah," he says. He does not look at Marci. He does not want her to see what he's thinking of her darling Dr. Hubbard.

The android looks back at Foggy with a raised eyebrow. "Is that your full response?"

"Well, I might be able to help with the sound, but your other reasons are solid. We could get you some sweet sunglasses so that your eyes' lack of focus is less obvious. Plus, if you do turn 'em on, the tint would lessen the effect, especially if you're already in a brightly-lit area." His smile is not much of a smile. "Like outside, for example. With the sun."

"Sunglasses."

He shrugs, willing himself to relax. "Just a thought."

"For the sun."

"Why not?"

The android inches closer, looking directly into Foggy's eyes. Foggy lifts his chin slightly, self-conscious of meeting that glowing gaze. "What do you want from me?" It's soft, inviting. _Tell me the truth. I won't mind_.

Foggy smiles, trying not to let his heartbreak show. "I want to help."

The android abruptly steps back and retreats to the table, which he leans against. He holds out his hand and looks down, as if—as if someone's sitting before him.

Foggy swallows. "Hi," he says. "My name is Foggy Nelson."

The android looks up and smiles. "It's nice to meet you, Foggy. My name is Matt."


	2. Function

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His next class is at 4:30, and he has never resented his lazy, morning-hating students more. Even so, getting out of there before he explodes is a positive. Marci makes her excuses, too, and leaves with him.

His next class is at 4:30, and he has never resented his lazy, morning-hating students more. Even so, getting out of there before he explodes is a positive. Marci makes her excuses, too, and leaves with him.

He almost tells her to stay. Instead, he decides the silent routine is wisest.

"You're mad, aren't you?"

He grunts.

"Poor little robot, with nobody in all the world to love it." She sighs, then says, "I don't even know where to start." They walk side by side for a few moments. "Immediately assuming that your long-term partner is mistreating the entity in her care without reason. You should probably write that down in the con column. Shows a lack of trust."

Foggy stops. "Marci, that's not—"

She shakes her head, heels clicking against tile. "It's fine. We'll talk on the way to dinner."

She towers over him, sometimes, with some of her shoes. Today she wouldn't need them.

He stands in the hallway, staring at the point at which she disappeared around a corner, until one of his students comes out of the room and asks if everything is okay.

He smiles, responds somehow, and walks into the room.

Teaching Python to a bunch of freshman has never been so hard.

——————————————————————————————

She picks him up at six exactly. Since it was a Friday night and he kept forgetting what he was saying, he had let his students leave fifty minutes earlier. In all that time, he hadn't mustered the courage to text her.

He knows what she'd say about that. In Marci's world, everything has a pro and con column. After the first time he'd called her perfect, she had frowned. Soon after, she began informing him of when he shouldn't forgive her, which patterns in their relationship had meaning. ("You can't just trust someone else not to hurt you," she had said, alarmed.

"You would never hurt me," he'd repeated.

"I do all the time, Foggy. I hurt you all the time. And I only know something's wrong because I see it in your eyes. You don't tell me anymore."

"You don't mean to..."

"Exactly. Exactly. Imagine if I tried.")

Foggy walks to the car, opens the door, and slips inside.

"He doesn't talk to me, you know. Doesn't even acknowledge me. Do you know why?"

Foggy has a feeling that he does, but he makes no response as he closes the door and buckles his seatbelt.

"Because I told him the truth. Before he even had a body, a few months after the Turing tests, he asked if I thought he could do it. Become sapient."

Foggy's gut starts to churn. She's driving faster than usual, and in the stop-and-go traffic of Friday night in a college town it leads to many near-misses.

"I said that I didn't care. And I don't. Trying is enough for me. However, I didn't expand upon my reasoning for him because his logs were monitored. Still are. Did you know that? Every single thing that he says, everything that he experiences, at the end of each night," she brakes hard to avoid the car in front of them that had turned without signaling, "he is programmed to summarize, to report, everything. It's a secure line. And we don't know where it goes."

They start again, this time at a crawl.

"So if you want to play human with him, be my guest. Frankly, it will help the results, which is part of why I suggested you. I mean, you cried during Wall-E. About the cleaner bot. The cleaner bot, Foggy."

The traffic begins to grow apart. It helps that they're leaving the city instead of coming in.

"But be careful. We didn't get to decide what went into him, not everything. And we don't know what they'd consider... interesting."

They're finally out. From here, it's only a five minute drive.

They spend it silent.

At his parents' driveway, she pulls in and cuts the engine. She pushes her hair back and he can tell, from the tap-tap-tap of her finger against her temple, that she's wishing she'd never quit smoking.

"I don't do things without reason, Foggy," she says softly.

"I know," he responds, because what else can he say?

"I know why you assumed, and it's okay. I know what I'm like." She breathes in deeply and exhales, looking out the window. "I don't want your mom to know we've been fighting. Can we just be normal tonight?"

"Yeah," he says. "That's fine." He looks down at his hands. "I'm sorry, Marci, I shouldn't have—"

But she's already out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might not seem like it, but I actually love (and really identify with) Marci. I wanted to present a different possibility with Marci/Foggy than what seems common to the fandom. She genuinely cares for Foggy; of all the people in the world, he's her favorite. But that doesn't mean it works, does it?


	3. Spark

The next morning, he wakes to a note from Marci and two texts from his stepmother. The post-it note is cramped with Marci's slanting words, but he's seen that scrawl often enough to interpret it easily. It reads, "Running errands—don't forget fundraiser. Rosalind RSVP'd. Had to invite her, didn't expect positive response. Have to show, don't have to stay. Sorry."

He groans and buries his head in his pillow for a few minutes. Rosalind.

When the phone chirps again, he gropes for it from under the pillow and brings it into his pillow-tent. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the bright screen, but considering what today has in store for him he's not quite ready to leave yet.

The first text says, "I love you both no matter what happens," sent at a time in the morning that only birds should be aware of.

The second says, "Everybody fights. It doesn't always mean something. Love you."

The third, from just a moment ago, says, "If you need anything, let me know, okay? I'll see you tonight."

The pillow betrayed him.

He tosses it to the ground.

The ceiling is nice. The ceiling is really nice and should be looked at more often. Whoever did the joining of the—of the joint things, really, top notch. And that cheapo popcorn kernel stuff really adds a nice dose of class.

He presses his hands to his face.

Anna and Rosalind.

Anna and Rosalind, in a room together.

Dr. Rosalind Sharpe, acclaimed neurologist and primary consultant for Project Isidore, deigning to join the undeserving for a night of wine, shrimp, and adoration.

Mrs. Anna Nelson, good mom and determined crafter, convinced Marci and Foggy are breaking up over one fight (which was barely a fight).

He turns off his phone, steals Marci's pillow, and goes back to sleep.

——————————————————————————————

Marci wakes him several hours later. She seems confused. "Are you sick?"

He shakes his head, looking up at her. Her hand is still on his shoulder, and he reaches over to hold it. She's still frowning slightly, but she gently strokes his palm with her thumb.

"Did you get any texts from my mom?"

Marci freezes, and then winces. "Yes." She sits on the edge of the bed, looking at their hands. The tip of her thumb ghosts over the center of his palm. "What did she say to you?"

"Just that she loves us."

"Oh."

She seems to think their hands are as interesting as he finds the ceiling. He says, as casually as he can, "Why, what did Mom say to you?"

"More or less the same." They're quiet for a few moments until she says, "Before I met your family, I thought parents always hated each other. I thought children were always resented." She nudges him, and he moves over. She slips into bed, and somehow they both have a corner of the pillow. "Movies showed something different, sure, but it seemed as fake as movie snow—just set-dressing, just something to make you feel better for a little while."

He lifts up his arm, and she curls into him. He gently strokes her hair, and she sighs, nuzzling against his chest.

"Foggy?"

"Hmmm?"

"If Rosalind insults Anna and I kill her, will you visit me in jail?"

He kisses the top of her head. "They would probably throw me in as an accessory for holding your purse."

"But who would bring me escape cake?"

"Don't you worry. I'll pull some strings from the inside. You'll get so much escape cake."

"Okay."

They stay that way for a few more minutes, and then she says, "If you get ready now, we can probably get you a burger."

His laughter shakes the bed. "I love you."

She kisses his cheek. "Of course you do. Now get up."


	4. Chapter 4

"Babe, I can't find my glitter shadow," Foggy calls from where he kneels, shoulders deep in the cupboard. "Do you have any I could use?"

He's still rummaging when something pokes his hip. He wriggles backwards, then looks up to see steel-capped stilettos—legs—a metallic silver sheath—and Marci's smirk. "Nice suspenders," she says drolly after a glance over his outfit. His very extremely good outfit. "I happen to know what a certain birthday boy's getting in a few weeks, if you want to open your presents early."

She drops a few wrapped packages in his upturned palms, then turns to the mirror, frowns slightly, and adjusts her hair. He peels the paper off each and gasps, then scrambles up to kiss her cheek. "How'd you even get this palette? It's been sold out for weeks!"

Marci catches his eye in the mirror and says, "Some people move mountains for love; I preorder."

He grins. "Probably for the best. Imagine the nasty letters from cartographers!"

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "We only have an hour, so try to limit yourself to starting over four times."

"Yes, ma'am!"

It only takes three tries, thank you very much, before he's satisfied with the look. He turns this way and that in front of the mirror, then nods. It couldn't be too fun, being a charity fundraiser, but the galaxy bowtie adds interest. As do the hints of pink, green, and purple along his eyeliner. And, okay, yes, he does have glitter in his hair, but his shirt is gray! His pants are black! It's professional!

Besides, tonight's going to suck. Sparkles are a necessary precaution.

* * *

When the cab stops, Foggy blinks at the elegantly-dressed crowd. Apparently, everyone else thought it was a real gala instead of a... huh.

"What was the dress code again?"

"'Creative black tie,'" she says, each word engulfed by audible air quotes. "It's 'fun' and 'creative' because cumberbunds might be navy blue."

"Ah."

She shrugs and steps out, and he follows suit. "If they want consistency, they should have a real dress code instead of one that organizers use to feel zesty."

Thumbing the rolled-up fabric of his shirtsleeves, he searches the crowd for someone, anyone else not wearing a jacket... and his eye catches on a pair of sunglasses.

"You look fine, Foggy."

"What? Oh. Yeah. No problem." He holds up his arm. "Madame?"

They drift into the hall, nodding and smiling at the vaguely familiar philanthropists they had to woo every year. Most donate on a specific schedule. Tonight was a balancing act between thanking them for their support, spending enough to warrant the ticket price while not using it all, proving the university used their money responsibly, and also getting them to give just a little more, you know, just because.

Someday, scientists would seize the means of production from the capitalists and fund their own lifesaving (and sometimes just cool) research, but for now begging would have to do.

He sighs and turns to the next person who is, in fact, his mother.

She's standing with the tallest woman he's ever met. "Franklin," says Rosalind, leaning in for a kiss. He taps his lips against her cheek. She looks him over and raises a brow, but says, "Well, they did say creative. How are you? Franklin, Marcia, this is Alexandra Reid. Alexandra, this is my Franklin and his Marcia."

Her words contain the implication of warmth, but Rosalind's relationship with heat ends there. Publicly, her son Franklin delights her; he makes a wonderful prop in her self-portrait. Undergrad and master's from Columbia, working toward a doctorate. Handsome enough, with a beautiful genius for a girlfriend. A lot to be proud of, especially for the only two parents he'd known until he was sixteen.

Well. She might have contributed to his looks.

Alexandra's hand does not move from Rosalind's hip, but her smile is that of a gracious host, albeit one he had never seen before. "Foggy—Franklin?—either way, it is a pleasure to meet you. I understand that you have lately joined Ms. Stahl on the project. Tell me, what do you make of our mechanical man?"

Alexandra reminds him of a classical statue that, one day, walked off the podium and shrugged on something haute. He can't quite manage the bacon-from-old-ladies smile for her; for one thing, she didn't seem likely to have cured meat in that clutch. Also, possibly, he might have a teeny, tiny crush on her, and if he smiles now he'll end up in puppy eyes territory.

Okay, two things: his looks and his taste in women.

Gross.

"Well, he certainly intrigues me. I look forward to getting to know the person Marci's helped bring to life over the past three years."

Rosalind shakes her head and opens her mouth, but Marci smoothly interjects, "Without our patrons, of course, the project would be entirely theoretical. Being able to explore possibilities has been deeply gratifying. We hope we can count on your continued interest in our endeavors."

"Of course," Alexandra says, eyes twinkling. "Boundaries exist to be transcended. Rosalind, shall we? I would like to become acquainted with the wine selection." With a last, lingering look at Marci, Alexandra leads them away.

They watch them leave, then Foggy says, "If you're going to leave me to be in a thrupple with my mom, kill me first."

"Please. Is my name Debbie Harris?"

"God." Foggy shakes his head to clear the eternal mental image. "Who was that?"

Marci gives him the my-God-I'm-the-only-intelligent-human-being-on-the-planet-after-all look. Opens her mouth. Closes it. Squints her eyes. "Foggy."

"Should I... know her?"

"Should you know Alexandra Reid."

Foggy glances around. "Context clues say yes?"

"Should you know billionaire Alexandra Reid, who has been dating your mother for six months. Who funds the project you're in."

He squirms and mumbles, "It's not like she sends announcements when she starts dating, I mean, anybody could not know things—"

"When a relationship involves bikini yacht pictures in tabloids, Foggy, it is considered beyond the announcement stage."

He gags. "I hate this. I never want to learn anything ever again."

"Don't worry," she says. "I'm sure you'll manage just fine. After all, you recovered from—"

She stops, blinking at something behind him. He turns to see a pair of red sunglasses above a small, shy smile.

"You came," Matt says, cocking his head. "And you're... sparkly."


End file.
